A Table in the Corner
by De la Coeur
Summary: The hidden table in the corner was nothing new to Hermione. At least, not until a red-haired someone came and pulled her out from behind it.
1. From a Table in the Corner

**Disclaimer: **Don't own it. Wish I did, but still don't.

**Author's Note:** This is dedicated to my father, who pulled me out of my table in the corner. Thanks, Da.

The hidden table in the corner was nothing new to Hermione.

For most of her early life, she had passed through school as "the brain," the girl who sat in front so she could answer the teacher but hide from her peers behind a curtain of hair. Awkward and shy, she never fit in, never belonged to any group. Friends were few and fleeting. Until she received her Hogwarts letter, she shrank from recognition and company, moving through the halls of her school like a ghost.

The day she received her Hogwarts letter was the day her life really began, and everything else seemed like just preparation. She suddenly was handed a purpose and a new start, and she certainly hadn't wasted it. Hogwarts had given her confidence and direction, an education and a life, and best of all, it had given her love and friendship. In Harry and Ron, she had received what she had longed for all her life: a place to belong. With them, no matter where she was, she was home. With them, she no longer had to hide behind her hair or sit alone at the table in the corner.

Which was why, she mused, that it irked her that she was sitting alone at a table in the corner of a crowded club, her hair falling into her face as she picked at her fingernails in her lap. She'd thought she'd passed this, she thought disgustedly, and looked up. A skinny man at the next table was staring at her. As soon as she noticed, he looked away, his cheeks rosy pink with embarrassment, as thought he'd been caught staring at some disfigurement. "That's it," she hissed, and pushed her chair back.

As soon as she did, Ron broke through the throng with a glass in each hand. "Deep breath there, Hermione. I'm here already," he said, and offered her his cheekiest grin. He set the drinks on the table, then collapsed gracefully (as only Ron could) into a chair. He was grinning from ear to ear, flushed with the heat in the club, and clearly pleased with the night in general. His sweater had been shed long ago, and his white t-shirt glowed dramatically in the dim lighting.

"About time you got here," Hermione said, a tad too loudly, trying to catch the attention of the skinny man, so he'd notice she wasn't alone anymore. "Where'd the others get to?"

"They're back there somewhere," Ron replied, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the bar. "Gin's been having trouble getting the attention of the bartender, so Harry went with her to make sure she was noticed."

Hermione nodded, sipping the frothy top of a butterbeer as she looked out on the gyrating, seething mass of dancers on the floor. Ron took a large sip himself and wiped his upper lip, then leaned into her, the only way to speak without being overheard.

"Hermione, what's the matter, really?" he said, smiling that good-ole-boy smile. "You're not normally like this."

She sighed. She should have guessed he'd see through her indignation and instead catch the insecurity that had threatened her just moments before. With Ron there, the anxiety, the fear of returning to who she had been was pushed back. Unconsciously, she straightened her shoulders and threw away the last vestiges of memory. "Nothing's wrong now," she said honestly.

His face cleared, and the grin returned. "Nothing that can't be fixed with a dance, at least," he said, and pulled her to her feet with a slick and practiced move, ending with her body pressed close. "Come on, baby," he half-murmured in a teasing drawl. "Light my fire." With that, he grabbed her hand and towed her to the dance floor. They passed Ginny and Harry, drinks in hand and surprise on their faces, and Neville and Luna, who were leaning over another table and talking animatedly.

Ron plunged straight into the group, heedless of the grinding bodies on every side. Aided by a well-placed elbow now and again, he soon reached a spot where the light was dusky and the crowd thick. Then he turned Hermione in his arms and dipped her in a dramatic move that made her laugh, more worthy of Fred and Ginger than a hot nightclub.

What Ron lacked in talent, Hermione thought, he more than made up for in enthusiasm. He swung, twirled, gyrated and just danced with fervent abandon. She hung back a little from him, making the barest of moves, until he swept her into another fast and dizzying spin. With her laugh came the thought, _No one's watching. No one cares what you look like. Just do it. _When she was righted on her feet again, she began to dance. Really dance.

The music, which could barely be heard above the din of the crowd, still echoed through the floor, through the soles of their feet as they moved. It created a kind of primal drumbeat which resonated through their bodies, until it seemed like they shared even the beat of their hearts. _It takes your breath away,_ Hermione thought as she brushed against Ron yet again. This time, though, he didn't just brush her back or flash her a lewd grin, as he had before. Instead, he grabbed her hips roughly and pressed her against his body. She looked up at his face, but it lacked the pure joy it had before. He flashed her a smile, a purely impish and naughty one. Somehow, she thought, this had become something more than a few fun moves between friends. This…she didn't know what to call this.

Just then, the music changed, from fast and hard and loud to something slow, something that would have been a ballad had it not been for the hot, sinuous licks of guitar in the background. Some people drifted off the dance floor, and Hermione was about to do the same, wanting a moment to clear her head. Ron grabbed her hand, however, and whispered, "Not yet. One more," and she would have done anything in that moment to find out what he was thinking. The least she could do, she thought as she stared up into his now-serious eyes, was stay for one more dance. So she let him spin her once more into him, let her hands settle on his shoulders. She found then that without Ron's enthusiastic movements, the crowd pushed in closer on every side, then let out, as if they were breathing together. Testing herself, and him, she wound her arms tighter around his neck. His ears (and since she was looking at them, avoiding his eyes, she noticed the change) turned red. "Right, then," he mumbled, and his voice sounded suddenly uncertain, far from the animated dancer he had been. She smiled, her confidence growing, and allowed the crowd to push them closer. His hands slid to her back, cradling her against him.

Replaying the dance later in her head, Hermione would think that that was the moment that everything changed, became something more than it had been. Ron's eyes stayed on hers as they began to move together, to dance, and absurdly, a line from an old song played over and over in Hermione's head: _All your life, you've been waiting for this one moment to be free. _Physically, the dance was no different than that of any other couple on the floor, but those eyes on hers clouded her mind, sped up her heart rate, altered a simple dance into something intimate and profound. His hands played up and down her spine, stroked her body as no one had before. Their bodies bumped, grinded, slid together, finding a rhythm that was surprisingly natural.

Hermione couldn't believe that this was _her life, that_ she was dancing (could you still call this just dancing?) with her best friend in a crowded nightclub. That she was feeling things she'd never felt before, and with _Ron._ It felt like she was watching herself move with that tall redhead, curiously detached, and yet everything she felt was also hyper-focused. The colors were brighter, the shadows more intense, and the music just seemed like another part of her body, like an exterior heartbeat. At one point, she threw her head back, tossing her hair away, and when she brought her face back up, Ron's eyes were on hers with something…something indefinable lighting them.

It was at that moment that the music stopped. Ron's arms were still around her, their bodies pressed so close it was like they were one. He was panting, she gasping. For one brief moment, his arms tightened around her, then let her go.

Now that it was over, she didn't know what to do. She offered him a tentative smile and said, "Well. That was…insane." At his surprised laugh, the tension seemed to ease, and she grabbed his hand companionably. "Let's get us a drink. What do you say?"

In answer, he slowly brought her hand to his lips. Hand in hand, they walked back to the table in the corner, where Ginny and Harry were now sitting, sipping their beers and laughing. Ron quickly joined in with the laughter, seating Hermione and himself, entering the conversation with ease that belied those shared moments on the floor. Hermione tried to follow the chatter, laughing in all the right places, but she found it hard to ignore the new taut line of awareness that stretched between herself and Ron. She couldn't help wondering what had changed, out there in that mass of people, and whether they could get it back. Whether she wanted it back, whatever _it_ was. Whether things could ever be the same again.

One thing was sure, she thought wryly as she watched Ginny throw her head back with laughter. Whatever had changed, whatever was still the same, she no longer sat alone at her table in the corner.

**Author's Note Too: **Phew! Longer than I meant it to be. Words just kept piling out, jumping over each other to find a place on the page. Thanks for reading, and please tell me what you think. I'm considering going on with this, but I'm not sure yet. Tell me!


	2. Piddle, Twiddle and Resolve

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to all who reviewed! I appreciate all the opinions I got on whether to go on or not. I decided to try for a little bit more, just to see what came next. After all, exploration is part of the journey of writing, is it not?

By the way, the story and/or chapter titles in this little saga all come from musicals. 10 points to your House if you can figure them out!

_Three bloody hours, _Ron thought. Three bloody hours he'd been lying awake.

He rolled over in his wide bed. Again.Settled one arm under his head. Again.Closed his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep.

Again.

His eyes popped open, and in a move born of sheer frustration, he threw off the blankets covering him. He strode out of his bedroom and into his tiny kitchen, cursing the whole way. He'd fix himself a nice pot of tea, he decided, and then he'd be able to sleep.

And if not, he thought, he'd just bash himself over the head with the teapot and be done with it.

It was all _her _fault. Enviously, he imagined her tucked snugly into her neat little bed, sleeping soundly with nary a care in the world. Then, because the thought of Hermione in a bed at all flushed his skin uncomfortably warm, he squinched up his face and tried to knuckle the gritty feeling out of his eyes.

Yes, all her fault, he thought as he set the kettle on to boil. Clearly. When he'd invited her onto the dance floor, he'd been expecting the same Hermione that he'd always danced with, the reserved one who had actually tried to learn dance moves from books. He hadn't been expecting—nor, he admitted, had he been prepared for—the girl who'd turned lithe and agile in his arms, the one who'd looked wild and wanton with her hair tossed about and her cheeks flushed, her eyes catching the few lights in the club. He hadn't been expecting her to fit herself so well into his arms, against his body. He hadn't been expecting at all.

And that was the problem, Ron thought now. He hadn't realized Hermione was so much a—well, a _girl._

That was stupid, he thought crossly. Of course he'd known Hermione was a girl. She'd always taken great pains to point out the differences between them. He'd just never thought that she'd be a girl that could be _his. _

He'd had other girlfriends before, since they'd left Hogwarts. He enjoyed women, loved the look, the smell, the taste of them. None of them had lasted long, he remembered ruefully, and most had left nothing behind but a vague memory of a face and name and, perhaps, a lingering sense of sadness. That hadn't lasted long either. Now, thinking of Hermione's arms around his neck, her body against his, her face so close…he thought he understood why.

"For the love of all things magical…" Ron breathed as the kettle began to sing. He quickly removed it from the stove, blistering his thumb in the process. As he ran it under cold water, his mind switched back to the club, to Hermione's face in that moment when she'd thrown her hair back and her eyes had met his. In his mind, her face changed subtly, shifted into a softer, younger face…the face he'd seen on the Hogwarts Express that first year. Drying his hands, Ron saw that face keep morphing, growing older...saw her cowering before a troll, smiling as she looked at him over a book in the library, laughing in the Great Hall. He saw her frozen features, white as the pillow her head rested on, then saw that damned face again as she ran down the stairs toward him, whole once more. He saw her terrified face in the Shrieking Shack, then the serene look she gave him when it was all over. He remembered her face contorted in fury after the Yule Ball, then remembered the look on it as she gripped his arm, waiting for Harry to come out of the maze. He remembered her at Grimmauld Place, in St. Mungo's, at the Burrow, at King's Cross Station. In class, at dinner, in the Common Room, in the library. Studying, laughing, lecturing. He remembered so much of that face…a dozen glares, a hundred smiles, a thousand unreadable glances.

Forgetting the tea, Ron sat down, right on the floor of his kitchen. Good God, that face. The one on the train, the one in the club. One and the same. Hermione.

"Of all things magical…" he whispered again, his voice wheezing a bit. Of all things magical, she was the most miraculous. And he was in love with her. Really, really in love, not just the crush he thought he'd been harboring all this time. The realization hit his stomach like a fist, but left something warm and indefinable in its place.

"Well, you've gone and done it now, mate," Ron said aloud to the empty air.


	3. In His Eyes

**Author's Note**: Whoa! So there actually are other people out there who like musicals! Sorry, folks, I don't have enough points to dole out to all of you. Thank you, though, for renewing my faith in people's music tastes!

Also, thank you for all of the kind reviews you've given me. What an ego boost! :) In return, here's another chapter—and thanks for sticking with it. Keep 'em coming, 'cause I love your input!

_In His Eyes_

The middle of the night was not the best time for deep thinking, Hermione thought. It allowed for entirely too much meandering.

It was the middle of the night. And she couldn't help it.

_This is stupid, _she scolded herself as she picked up her brush, smacking it against her palm. With short, furious strokes, she began to tame her hair. _Stop thinking about it so much. _

The problem was, she reflected, that she couldn't stop her mind from circling the same topics again and again, as it had all night. She could make her face look interested, she could make the right comments and laugh when appropriate, but she couldn't fool her own mind. She couldn't stop replaying the night over and over and over again. She had sudden flashes of memory—the feel of the music in her heart, the heated press of the crowd, Ron's hands on her body. That last bit raised gooseflesh on her arms every time.

Her heart stopped altogether whenever she had a sudden memory of his eyes in that last instant before the music ended.

And what had _that _been about? she wondered as she slowly removed her earrings and dropped them on her dresser. Had she imagined it? No, she thought quickly, remembering his eyes with a shiver. Definitely not. There'd been a time, when they were in school, that she'd been able to read his every thought, and most of his emotions. He was, after all, a _boy._ But then they'd graduated, and he'd started work at the Ministry, and now…now it was harder to see what he was thinking. Every once in a while, in times like last night, she felt an odd disconnect when she looked at him and didn't see everything he felt in his face.

Well, then she had only one recourse, Hermione thought as she finished brushing her teeth and neatly put her things away. As she walked into her bedroom, she whispered a spell to light candles sitting next to her bed. Settling under her blankets, she thought of the next day. She'd just go to his flat tomorrow morning, she thought. And she'd ask him exactly what had gone on.

Her mind made up, she whispered _"Nox,"_ turned over, and went to sleep.

---

Hermione awoke slowly the next morning, relishing the comfort that surrounded her. She showered and dressed while mentally reviewing her activities for the day. It wasn't until she was standing in front of her mirror ("Oooh, late night, dearie?" it said) that she remembered her resolution to talk to Ron. Ignoring the little tingle in her belly, she uttered an incantation to dry her hair. And, telling herself it was foolish, she added a little makeup with a flick of her wand.

She assured herself it wasn't for him.

Her mother had always said that food didn't go amiss when one was bearing news, good or bad. _And what about when one was going to ask tricky questions?_Hermione thought, and snorted out a laugh as she headed out the door. Either way, she'd stop by the bakery on the way to Ron's flat two streets away.

Wasn't it interesting, Hermione reflected as she started down the street, that she, Ron and Harry had all ended up living in London? They would have stayed friends regardless of where they lived; they were too close to do otherwise. She remembered that she'd breathed a sigh of relief though, when, after Hogwarts and the Defeat, she and Ron had settled in flats mere streets from each other; Ron, so he could work at the Magical Games and Sports division of the Ministry, and Hermione so that she could study at Blakentode University, hidden in the heart of London.

Everything had fallen into place when Harry had finally chosen a place near Diagon Alley. The Defeat of the Dark Lord had left him shaken and uneasy, gaunt and exhausted, and he only seemed to improve once he'd been able to tell his best friends (in choked, hushed tones) exactly what had happened. After that, he'd seemed to find new resolution and purpose, walking with a stride full of quiet confidence. It had been a relief to everyone when the color returned to his face, when he laughed and joked around, and then when he began to play Quidditch again. At first, it was just pickup games with Ron's brothers and anyone else he could con into playing, but soon he played in real matches. It had come as no surprise to anyone when he'd been asked to try out for England's national team...and had made it.

Really, it was such a relief to have her two best friends so close, Hermione thought as she selected a variety of bagels and doughnuts. She'd never be as happy living away from them, and although Harry spent a great deal of time on the road, they always managed to spend minutes, hours, even days together when he was home. She admitted to herself often when she was alone that she never would have imagined, in her younger days, living in London with friends who were really family, studying what she loved best: magic.

Juggling the box of pastries and her purse, Hermione didn't immediately see Harry as she neared Ron's flat. In fact, she didn't see him at all until he took the box from her arms, surprising her into a yelp. He flashed his teeth in a cheerful smirk and said, "All right there, Hermione? A bit jumpy this morning?"

Hermione blew out a breath that fluffed her bangs. "No, I'm just…maybe a little. Thanks for your help." They began walking together, up Ron's short walk and his front steps. "So what are you doing here this early? I thought you had a match today," Hermione said.

"Nah, just a little game between friends," said Harry. "Actually, Molly invited us all to dinner tonight at the Burrow, and I'm supposed to spread the word around 'cause she couldn't get a hold of Ron last night. Bill's coming in from Egypt for a couple of weeks, and since Charlie's already here, she decided it was past time for a celebration."

"Sounds like fun," Hermione said. _Depending on what Ron says this morning, _she thought privately to herself, and tried to ignore the flutters in her stomach again.

Harry knocked, three short raps on the front door. From inside the apartment, they both heard a loud bump and an even louder curse, and they barely had time to exchange puzzled looks before the door opened to reveal a fuzzy-headed, bleary-eyed and shirtless Ron.

"What happened to you, mate? You look terrible," Harry said as he pushed past Ron, heading for the kitchen.

"And this coming from the Boy Who Never Combs His Hair," Ron growled. His eyes settled on Hermione, whose feet seemed to have grown roots into the concrete. Her eyes were glued to his chest, and so she saw the blush travel up his pale, cool skin, up, up, all the way to his hairline. _What is wrong with you? _she wondered embarrassedly. _You've seen him plenty of times without his shirt. _Still, she couldn't help thinking that where he'd once been skinny and gangly, he'd settled comfortably into tall and slender. With an enormous effort, she tore her eyes away from his chest and looked directly into his face. His eyes, she noticed, were bloodshot and full of frustration and embarrassment.

"You really…don't look well," she said, and was surprised to hear the words come out raspy and hoarse. Ron seemed to struggle for words for a moment, then gave up, and, leaving the door wide open, sloped off in the direction of his bedroom. Hermione took this for an invitation and walked back to the kitchen to join Harry, who was emptying a full kettle and putting fresh water in.

"Figured I'd brew him a fresh pot," Harry said when he noticed Hermione. "Won't go too well with those lovely pastries you brought, but it's his indigestion."

"Ron digests anything and everything," Hermione remarked without thinking. She was pleased to note that her voice was back to normal. She opened the box Harry had carried in and began to set them, one by one, on a plate. Ron came back in then, dressed in a dark green t-shirt that made his hair and his ears—still flushed as they were—seem redder. He pulled a carton of orange juice out of his refrigerator and glugged some down.

"So, do you want to tell me what you two are doing here so bloody early?" Ron asked. Hermione looked at her watch. "It's past ten, Ron," she replied mildly, which earned her an irritated glare.

"Your mum's having a dinner at the Burrow tonight, since your brothers are coming home," Harry broke in. "Everyone's invited, so I just came by to see what your plans were."

Ron relaxed against the counter. "No plans tonight, although I do have to stop by the Ministry today to pick up a few things," he said.

"Great," Harry said. "Well, why don't you have some of the doughnuts Hermione's brought you. It'll make you that much heavier and that much slower when I play you and your brothers this afternoon." He added a sly and teasing wink.

"Yeah, all right, just let me get changed," Ron said, walking out of the kitchen and back to his bedroom. "The heavier I am, the faster I dive!" he yelled back, making Harry chuckle.

Hermione slowly gathered her things. Well, she hadn't had a chance to ask him about last night, she thought. But there was always tonight, and besides, things seemed to be almost back to normal. Maybe whatever had passed between them last night had been a fleeting occurrence. Then she thought of her reaction to his shirtlessness, and her cheeks flushed hot. Maybe not. A sudden vision of his eyes, set into his blushing face, flashed through her mind. She'd been almost sure she'd seen something there too…something hot, something full of longing. She felt a momentary flash of triumph that she'd been able to read him once more.

So it wasn't all one-sided, she thought, and her heart sped up foolishly. Well, she thought, there'll be plenty of time to watch him tonight…and maybe she'd come to understand what was happening between them.


	4. In Daylights, In Sunsets

**Author's Note: **A million thank you's go out to all my reviewers! You own my soul.

…

You can keep it; it's not worth much. :)

P.S. I am _so sorry _it's taken so long to update. I could offer a thousand excuses, but all of them would be weak…so thanks for picking it up again where I left off. Hopefully this chapter will make up for the long wait.

_In Daylights, In Sunsets_

Ron was late, and it was all the fault of that pretentious, overbearing Waldo Crump. He'd only meant to stop at the Ministry for a few moments, but he'd been caught by Crump and treated to a well-rehearsed diatribe on Muggle restrictions that had only ended when he'd looked pointedly at his watch (_You're late,_ it had informed him) and sighed loudly. Now, hurrying up the broken and crooked walk to the Burrow with a good bottle of Firewhiskey under his arm, he braced for the lecture he was about to face.

Stepping into the house was still coming home, no matter where he lived, he thought. "Mum, I'm here," he called out as he headed for the kitchen. Molly hurried out, her plump face rosy, her hair disheveled and a grin stretching her features. "You're late," she said first, then caught him up in a ferocious hug that filled his nostrils with her particular gingery, homey smell. "Welcome home," she said as she took the bottle from him and headed back to the kitchen. "Everyone else is out back. Feel free to help out—I think your brothers could use it."

Smiling at the wry tone in her voice, Ron eagerly stripped off his jacket and headed through the back door into the garden. There were Fred and George near the hedge, both wearing ridiculous vests in shades of purple and orange, laughing raucously at something Harry had said. Ginny stood near her father, her face relaxed and open as she chatted with him and watched Harry covertly. Charlie and Percy had busied themselves arranging the chairs around the table, which stood empty and begging to be covered in steaming and aromatic dishes. Last, Ron saw Bill, relaxed on the grass and talking animatedly to Hermione, whose cheeks were flushed and eyes alive in the light of evening.

_She's beautiful _was Ron's first thought, and it surprised him. All day, those eyes, that face had been pushing themselves into his consciousness, and he wasn't sure he was happy about that. He'd tried to ignore her all day, but she'd continued popping up at the most inconvenient times. He blamed it on too little sleep and too much butterbeer the night before. Strangely, though, he was beginning to feel that no amount of either would change the way she stayed in his thoughts, always at the edge of his mind, never quite disappearing completely. He was in love with her, he knew that now, but he hadn't decided just what to do about it. If this constant reminder of her, this nagging ache to be near her was love, then he wasn't sure he wanted it. And he still wasn't sure what to do next.

Caught up in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed that Bill had shifted closer to Hermione. He hardly realized he was staring when Bill reached out and tugged a loose lock of Hermione's hair, then somehow turned it into a quick, friendly stroke with one finger down her cheek. It surprised him, badly, when suddenly Harry (who, without his noticing, had come to stand next to him) said, "Ever heard of Cain and Abel, Ron?"

He cleared his throat, hearing the laugh in Harry's voice and trying to figure out if it was a trick question. He finally settled on a safe answer of "No. What's that?"

Harry, mirth written clearly on his features, answered cryptically, "Not what, who. But it's not important."

Just then, Molly came through the door and announced that the cooking was done, but she could use a couple of big, strong men to carry the dishes out of doors. Answering the call, her sons and Harry loaded up their arms with vats of steaming soups, bowls of vegetables, and platters of meats and breads. The table groaned under the weight of so much good food, and everyone complimented Molly until she was red in the face as they seated themselves. Ron listened with half an ear to the chatter as he pulled out a chair for Hermione, then sat down next to her. Strangely, though, a blush rose on her features as he pushed in her chair for her, and she looked bashfully down at her napkin. This wasn't right, he thought. Hermione wasn't bashful. "All right there, Hermione?" he said, and thankfully, his voice came out sounding relaxed and jovial, just as he'd intended.

"Oh, yes. Yes, thank you," she said, stuttering a bit. "And you? You look better than this morning."

"Well, I am wearing a shirt now," he said, and they both laughed with more than a little self-consciousness, but it eased the tension anyway. They turned their attentions to the meal, which was simply splendid. "Molly, my dear, you've really outdone yourself," Arthur said from the head of the table. Molly blushed prettily and began talking to Harry, who sat on her left. Talk at the table ranged from the twins' joke shop to Ginny's and Hermione's studies at university to Quidditch scores to work at the Ministry. In between, Fred and George inspired brief moments of hilarity by breaking out new, prototype joke products, such as a fake parrot that echoed everything Percy said (Ron was sure the twins would never get over their love of mocking Percy, especially since he'd returned to his family and apologized in Ron's sixth year) and light-up smoke that spelled bad words behind the heads of various people at the table. Once everyone had eaten their way into a lazy torpor, they retired to a cool section of lawn and talked as fireworks went off above their heads.

As evening spread its fingers across the grass and sky, the warmth of day faded. Noticing Hermione's shiver, Ron stood up, offering to get her a blanket or jacket from the house. "No, no," she said quickly, and stood up too. "Actually, I'd like a chance to stretch my legs. Walk with me?"

Companionably, he fell into step next to her, and they turned away from the group, beginning a slow and easy walk to the lake. They didn't notice the shrewd but teasing looks that followed them, or the whispers of _"finally" _that trailed after them.

Once they had walked over the crest of the far hill and out of earshot and eyesight, Ron began to feel a little uncomfortable again. He was alone with Hermione, and while that wasn't anything new, he felt keenly the things that had changed between them. Their relationship was shifting, and he wasn't quite sure he wanted that, or if he did, how far and how fast he wanted it to go. With thoughts spinning about in his head, he only had enough energy to muster up a few words. "Nice night," he said, hating the inanity of it, when there were so many things he'd like to say, so many questions he'd like to ask.

"Mmm, it is," Hermione said, and tilted her face up to the shrinking ball of light in the sky, which now barely touched the earth with an orangey glow. She took a deep breath. "Ron, there's something I wanted to…to ask you. I came by this morning to find out, well, to ask you…that is, I just wanted to know…" She stopped.

Ron felt himself gaining some confidence at her flustered appearance and fumbled words. Hermione was usually so articulate, so full of confidence and grace, that to see her ill at ease was definitely something new. "Go ahead, Hermione, spit it out," he said with an easy smile.

Hermione took another deep breath. "Well, I just…Ron, last night at the club, when I was dancing with you…did things seem a little different to you? I mean, we've danced before, but this was—I don't know, this just seemed…not the same. Do you know what I mean?"

He looked down at her, surprised. Of course it had felt different to him, but he hadn't realized she'd felt it too. He should have known that she would, he thought. Nothing as powerful as that dance could have changed things so drastically for him and had no effect on her. It must have been bothering her a great deal to make her bring it up to him, though, and now he wasn't sure how to answer.

His eyes still rested on her face, expectant and unsure, as they ambled over another hill and began walking along the lake's edge. Not sure how to begin, he settled for honesty. "Yeah, it did," he said openly, and took her elbow to help her step over a fallen log. "Last night…I don't know, it started out like just you and me, you know? You and me, just like we've always been. But then things changed, somehow. I don't know why, but it was like you were a different girl, but still the same. Like you were still my best friend, but more than that, too." Frustrated at his inability to say exactly what he was feeling, he missed the shock and comprehension on Hermione's face.

"That's how I felt too," she said quietly. "I wondered. You seemed so normal afterwards, I couldn't tell what you were feeling or thinking, and so I wondered."

They lapsed into an uneasy silence, in which words left unsaid were as loud as the buzzing of gnats in the cooling air. Hermione wrapped her arms around herself with a shiver as a breeze from the lake washed across them. Ron, all concern, quickly turned to her and rubbed his hands up and down her arms, trying to warm them. "You're cold. Come on, we'll go back, we'll get you something warm…" He trailed off.

Hermione's face was tilted up to his, her gaze uncertain. Her eyes were touched with the last of day's light, and her hair twisted and twirled in the breeze, dancing across his fingers, which had somehow come to rest on her shoulders. Ron suddenly was overcome with a dizzying disoriented feeling, and his world narrowed to her face, to the slight tremble in her lips. Words fled his mind and thoughts scattered. He knew, suddenly, what he wanted to happen in their relationship. He knew he was in love with her. And he knew he wanted to kiss her.

Leaning down, he gently, so gently, touched his lips to hers. It was over almost before it started, could barely be called a kiss, but it left him with a deep desire to do it again. Before he could, though, Hermione's lips were on his, warm and sure, and she was straining on her tiptoes to reach him, her hands braced on his chest. Her eyes stayed on his for a few moments, then fluttered closed as she tilted her head to fit her lips to his more truly.

Looking back, Ron remembered everything about those kisses in exquisite detail: the way her hands rested on his waist, the way she sighed when he paused to rain kisses on her cheeks, eyes, nose. He would remember the way she leaned into him, her fingers resting lightly on his shoulders or cupping his cheek. He remembered perfectly the moment when he paused, opened his eyes, and looked at her face in the growing shadows that followed the sunset…and he would always remember that he had never wanted to stop.


End file.
